


SotP Tales - He Who Protects

by SLotH4



Series: Slothverse [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic (Video Games), Star Wars Legends: Legacy (Comics), Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Sith, The Force
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28777362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLotH4/pseuds/SLotH4
Summary: What defines a Sith? Is it their passion? Their desires? Their power? No, it is their legacy. A Sith is defined by their successor – be it good or ill. By living a life worth remembering, by instilling their beliefs in another, they become immortal. How will you be remembered? -- Set prior to “Shadow of the Phoenix.”
Series: Slothverse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2105697
Kudos: 2





	SotP Tales - He Who Protects

**SotP Tales - He Who Protects **

* * *

Deep under the craggy edifice of Dosuun’s Raxis Mountains, was a catacombic facility of indescribable import. The nerve center of the Order of Lady Vathila. Where the Dark Lady slept and guided the Sith Collective – both overtly and covertly. It housed every convenience and need the inhabitants might desire. Food courts, bathing facilities, libraries and an academy, recreational zones, and a communications array that kept her abreast of galactic events.

In the outer section of the academy, there was a dojo set up for the Apprentices to hone their skills. Amongst them was a woman of porcelain fairness and silken, ivory hair pulled back behind her pointed ears. She went through the motions of the Makashi katas, her ruby blade cutting the air with perfect precision. It was pure muscle memory by this point, little more than physical meditation.

Master Kishhodt was comfortable in her place at the academy. She’d been entrusted by Lady Vathila with molding the semi-useless teenagers who passed through on their way to training under dedicated Masters. She shared the duty with Master Chikchik, though the chadra-fan focused on the younglings instead.

Kishhodt smiled as she watched the young Apprentices train. They were the future of Lady Vathila’s Order, and while she may not agree wholeheartedly with the Dark Lady’s philosophy, she was a devotee of the dark side and would serve the Collective in whatever capacity was best.

Just then, she felt a shift. A disturbance in the Force. Primal energy that pulsed kilometers above their underground sanctuary. Deactivating her curved lightsaber, Kishhodt sprinted out of the dojo toward the turbolift in the center of the facility, finding Lady Vathila entering the turbolift with the Twins in tow – the massassi brothers little more than mountains of rippling red muscle and anger.

She was garbed in a dark emerald silk dress that split up the thigh, glimpses of crimson flesh showing as she walked – her vestments considered the height of fashion Coreward. Ebony hair fell like ribbons behind her ears, her amber eyes radiating with regal power and palpable wisdom. Her presence was captivating and terrifying at once – her power burning like a star to any who could sense it. But even in mere images – dead to the Force – one could see something in her. She carried the weight of eons, and any who spoke with her knew she was more than they could hope to comprehend.

“Master Kishhodt,” she greeted, “you felt it as well?”

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, as they always did in her presence. “I did, Mistress.”

“Then let us investigate. An interloper has made a grave error coming to our sanctuary.”

The turbolift flew up at an uncomfortable rate, covering the kilometers-long shaft in mere moments. As they rose, there was a thud from above and the whole shaft shook – bits of duradust falling from small cracks in the façade. The disturbance in the Force grew with each shockwave. As they crested the top, the Sith poured out of the turbolift and funneled into the waiting speeders. They took off for the spaceport at top speed.

They could see columns of black smoke rising from their destination. It was an old Imperial facility from the Remnant Era that had been refurbished into a port of call for the ne’er-do-wells of civilized space – as well as a distribution point for Lady Vathila’s network of couriers and spies.

Now though, nothing remained but ruins.

At the epicenter, a rush of unyielding rage that warped everything around it. Wild power shredding everything within its grasp. Fires spread and screaming was heard in all directions alongside the ferocious winds.

The power felt strange. It was _too_ strong. The hatred flavoring the air like morning fog. Could there truly be a rival to the Mistress?

Dismounting their speeders, the group of four pushed their way in and beheld a young boy – bloody and shaking. He stood on quaking legs, enveloped in a shimmering light. His eyes were wild – a blistering red and yellow of one attuned to the dark side. And in those eyes, they saw hate magnified beyond what was considered possible. It was pure and unrefined, and it was now upon them.

The ground cracked and quaked as the boy threw his arms out toward them. Plates of scorched duracrete and nutrient-poor soil erupted from the earth, whipping toward them like a ribbon of stone. Kishhodt jumped back-and-forth, bobbing and weaving as best she could. The Twins, despite their bulk, were just as dexterous – were they any slower, they might have been crushed like flame beetles beneath a falling wroshyr tree.

In the face of such chaos, Lady Vathila stood firm. The winds whipped around her and the stones came up short – her own power pinning them to the ground where they belonged. A crackle of lightning danced on her fingers before a torrent of thunder erupted from her palm and bathed the interloper in ephemeral radiance.

He screamed and spasmed, and it looked like he might collapse in a heap, but instead, his heels dug in as the energy ground out across his skin – searing flesh and charring clothes. He roared in defiance and threw out one hand with the other pointed behind him. Two fingers thrust forward as he reflected the Mistress’s power back at her.

Kishhodt dove out of the way, but she didn’t miss the surprise in Lady Vathila’s eyes as the power returned to its source. Vathila deflected the bolts around her, incinerating the ground about her as she carefully avoided hitting her entourage in the process. As she swept her arms back, the boy was already rushing toward her – his stomping feet shaking the earth beneath them.

His fist snapped forward and slammed into the ground where Lady Vathila had stood – missing her by a breadth. The ground cratered beneath his fist as he pulled it free and swept it toward the Mistress, crushing the soil beneath a wave of Force energy so dense there were visible sparks. The Lady dodged the blow and reached for the boy, their hands clapping together, fingers entwined as each struggled to overpower the other.

Kishhodt could feel a shift in gravity near the dueling gods. The pressure was thick and building. The boy roared, his rage matched by the Mistress as she too bellowed in opposition. A line of blackened blood dribbled from her nose as she poured more energy into her hands. The light warped around them and the planet shook beneath their feet. The crater deepened and the clouds above swirled and flashed with static energy.

Then Vathila pulled the boy toward her and smashed her forehead into his – the clack echoing like a physical shockwave. The boy was stunned and unprepared as she threw a fist and caved him into the ground. She pinned him to the ground and dug her fingernails into his skull, flooding his mind with oscillations of conflicting energies until he was finally – _mercifully_ – brought low.

Kishhodt approached – gingerly – and nudged the unconscious boy with her boot, her lightsaber still held at the ready. She finally got a good look at him. He looked in his mid-teens, though it was hard to say. He was scrawny and dirty, perhaps underfed. His hair was dark and his skin was pale from too much time in space. She could see a collection of light scars on his arms, each one straight and purposeful. Aside from that, he seemed almost… serene.

Lady Vathila stood nearby and Kishhodt could see her breathing heavily. She couldn’t remember the last time the Mistress was winded.

Finally, Vathila spoke – wiping her nose, “Call for a shuttle and a suppression band. We’re taking him with us.”

* * *

It had been a month since the boy had come to Dosuun, and despite her best efforts, Master Kishhodt was at a loss for how to unlock his potential. For Force sake, he held his own against the _Dark Lady of the Sith_! But once he awoke, there was nothing! Hell, he wouldn’t even speak to anyone the first week. Thankfully, that changed after a time and they could now converse.

His name was Lucius, and he was terrified of everyone and everything. He had the disposition of a slave. It was pathetic, if understandable. Pirates were often cruel masters. He claimed ignorance of the battle in the ruined spaceport and the subsequent mind-rip confirmed as much. Where had his power gone?

Lady Vathila believed he could be a valuable asset, and so tasked Kishhodt with the boy’s education. It was a mixed blessing. She clenched her fist and tried to calm her nerves which screamed out in protest – demanding she bury her knuckles into the back of the boy’s head. How was it possible? How could someone so innately gifted be so utterly incompetent when it came to the basics? Moving rocks is not that complex!

He was too focused on the here and now, the physical and perceptual, the—

Kishhodt had an idea.

An _awful_ idea.

Master Kishhodt had a wonderful, awful idea.

“Lucius?”

The boy turned to her, only to scream out in pain as she blew pelko bug dust into his eyes – the blistering paralytic rendering him blind. He flailed about like a tytahuso fish convulsing in the sand. It was as close to death he could be without actually being at risk.

Blind.

Hurt.

Scared.

“What are you doing?!” he screamed, rubbing his eyes to staunch the pain as blisters formed around his eyes and spread to his now-numb fingers.

Kishhodt’s tone was gloating, “Your eyes can deceive you, don’t trust them. Instead, trust in the Force.”

“I can’t use the Force!”

“You can and you will,” she said, levitating the nearby rocks with an upturned hand, “Now, dodge!”

One of the missiles cracked against the boy’s skull, his forehead erupting in a crimson torrent. Six more followed, smashing into his arms as he tried to shield himself. The thud of one impact preceded a yelp of pain as his ulna bone fractured. “Stop with the fucking rocks!”

Kishhodt stifled – poorly – a chuckle of amusement. The boy could be quite foulmouthed at times. A side-effect of his time amongst Outer Rim pirates. Despite his vitriolic protestations, the barrage continued until he was knocked to the floor with a concussion. She dropped the remaining stones and sauntered over to him without pity. His face was a ruin. Blood dripped off every contour.

She felt fear in him. Concern that she would continue the abuse. But beneath that was anger. A seething rage that kindled embers of hate he’d learned to repress during his time with the pirates. No doubt a wise decision whilst one was powerless. Here though, it was but a barrier.

“Why do you contain yourself so, Lucius?” she asked, smiling down at him as he opened an angry, bloodshot eye, “I can _feel_ your anger. Let it out. Unless of course you wish to die by my hand instead of overcoming your weakness.”

The eye continued to glare, and she could see a rivulet of tears washing away the blood. More interesting was the shift in eye color from olive-green to a sparkling amber. He was so close.

“I think I’m done with you for now. I’m not here to waste time on the _weak_.”

He groaned and shifted slightly, unable to rise with his broken forearms. She watched for a moment, feeling his hate grow. Could he overcom—?

A glob of bloody spittle struck her boot. She smiled at his defiance as his swollen eye closed again and he fell unconscious. She lifted his body with the Force and dragged him to the infirmary, still smiling to herself as she prepared the bacta tank. She felt a shift in the Force behind her as the door opened. “Lady Vathila.”

“How is he proceeding?” she asked, eying his broken form as it sank into the medical fluids.

“Poorly. He lacks even the most fundamental aptitudes, Mistress. He can neither predict my movements nor even lift an object with but a gesture. It’s like training a droid.”

“How peculiar.”

“He has potential. We can both feel his power, but he struggles to utilize it,” she lamented, shaking her head, “The best I can say is that he’s grown to hate me enough to be defiant.”

Vathila nodded, then sighed. “He’s no good to us like this.”

“That’s something I wished to discuss with you, Mistress,” Kishhodt began, “Others have taken note of the boy. Some believe he can be exploited or targeted. They sense his power but he behaves as if he has none. Some of the more aggressive students have been testing the limits of harassing him.”

“Perhaps that will unlock his abilities.”

“Maybe, but do we really want him losing it in the middle of the compound, ma’am? I suggest we continue as-is. The latest training session was more fruitful than others. I believe another round of this may show results.”

“I want him to succeed, old friend, but I sometimes worry that he is a mere glass cannon.”

“Then perhaps you could offer a sign of protection,” she suggested with a shrug, “What about making him one of your Chosen?”

Lady Vathila scoffed. “Don’t be absurd. You want me to welcome this useless child into my inner circle? The others might begin questioning me if I do.”

“It need not be so drastic, but the boy should be marked in some way to afford him necessary protection. The Chosen are marked by a golden bracelet, give him one of another color,” Kishhodt suggested.

“Hmm,” Vathila hummed, tapping a sharpened black nail to her crimson lips, “Yes, I think that will suffice. He is important to me. He is a valuable asset. Else I’ll be beholden to the Order of Vitiate for such weapons.”

“Then I will continue his training, Mistress. Force willing, we’ll see progress soon.”

* * *

Months later, Master Kishhodt stood at attention in Lady Vathila’s chambers as the Mistress reviewed Lucius’s updated medical report, her clawed fingers swiping along the datapad screen. The boy was currently recovering in the academy’s medical suite as a result of tragically failing to follow simple instructions.

Kishhodt could remember every blow she landed to create that report. Every punch, kick, and slash. Every time she strangled him or dislocated a limb. Every broken bone or ruptured organ. Every wasted punishment that produced nothing in return.

She knew the report by heart:

Every major bone showed evidence of previous damage – clavicle, jaw, tibia, fibula, ulna, and ribs.

His right eye socket had been shattered.

His left shoulder has been dislocated multiple times, as had his left wrist – with most of the bones of his left hand having been broken.

He had damage to five vertebrae, all of which were treated.

The most severe fractures required bone lamination.

Deeper scans showed internal scarring on several organs – both from blunt force trauma and lacerations.

And this was just the stuff hidden beneath his flesh, itself a latticework of crisscrossed scars – some deep and others raised. Had he been able to command the Force, the report would be much more sparse. Kishhodt didn’t break the boy out of sadism or even frustration. She simply trained him as if he had the Force as a shield. If not for copious bacta treatments and bleeding-edge medical science, he’d probably still be recovering from the first week.

Though, if she were honest, she would admit that some of the broken bones were in response to the boy’s barbed tongue – unleashed only when his frustrations peaked.

Vathila finished her review and set down the tablet, favoring Kishhodt with a frown that sent her stomach to gymnastics. “A broken tool is of no use to me, my friend, but a useless tool is even worse. Has he made any progress?”

Kishhodt bowed her head. “He has, Mistress, though it is minimal. He has begun defending himself with the Force on an instinctual level, but he still lacks the dexterity needed to actively manipulate it. I’ve shifted the training regimen to focus on overcoming his psychological blocks. If you review the dates in that report, you’ll see that most injuries were incurred in the first month, before it was clear he couldn’t use the Force to defend himself.”

“I do see that. Is that because he’s gotten better, or because you’re growing soft?”

“I wouldn’t describe it as ‘soft,’ ma’am. I do see some improvement, and he’s using more and more of the martial arts he learned in his youth, which is helping,” she explained carefully, “However, I think the change in focus also helps in this regard. It’s no use brutalizing him without tangible results.”

“But by your own admission, he hasn’t progressed much under your care.”

Kishhodt bristled but tamped it down. “He has not progressed as much as we wish, this is true, but he _is_ progressing.”

“I’m not sure it’s enough,” Vathila said, reaching for her glass of Kaasi brandy – a gift from Prince Beni’vel, “Perhaps you are going too easy on him.”

Kishhodt arched a brow. “Ma’am, I hardly think that the medical report shows a light touch on my part.”

“True, but we’ve spent four months on this boy. At this point, I’m considering handing him over to Plagueis for vivisection.”

Kishhodt was quiet. To be a prisoner of the Order of Plagueis… better to die than suffer that hell. “I see… how long do I have before you come to a decision?”

Vathila tapped the gemwood desk with a finger, sipping her liquor. “One week. If he is not able to perform the _most basic_ of exercises by then, I will call blank slate on this whole project.”

“I understand, Mistress. I will do my utmost.”

“Please do. I would rather not rely on Interitus to produce Force-wielders.”

Kishhodt offered a deep bow and excused herself. Her thoughts zipping about at lightspeed. She was determined to save the boy from his fate, not out of a sense of affection so much as personal pride. She would not fail.

She had worked with Master Chikchik and attempted to teach him as one does a youngling. Didn’t work. She’d attempted to beat him into shape as a smith beats steel. Partially successful, but woefully inadequate. Perhaps she really was holding back. If the boy was doomed already…

She found him in his quarters, poring over the training scrolls and history crystals she’d given him. He was studious if nothing else. He looked over as she approached and quickly rose and bowed – he was also appropriately respectful, which was smart. “Master Kishhodt, greetings.”

She did not reply, she simply looked him over as he nervously fiddled with the corded red bracelet on his left wrist. He was more filled out than when they found him – food and daily aerobics forging a sinewy body. And then there was his aura. He was strong in the Force, strong as any she’d trained. What was blocking his ability to tap into it, she wondered. It was psychological, this was understood. Why it still mattered after so long with her was more puzzling.

Oh well.

“Come with me, Lucius,” she ordered, beckoning him with a hand.

He followed obediently – two steps behind and to the right in a show of submission. They made their way to the dojo and Kishhodt smiled to herself, she could feel his anxiety. She had to think – long and hard – to try and remember a time he left the dojo on his own two feet. Nothing came to mind. Poor thing.

Once within, they approached a table in the corner. On the table was a metal box with an open top. Beside it was a small stone that would fit in the palm of one’s hand. She gestured to them. “You’re going to try – _yet again_ – to place the stone in the box.”

Lucius frowned and she could see flashes of pain in his mind. The last time he failed, she’d broken his thumbs and forced him to spar with two training droids. He tried, of course, but holding a blade with broken thumbs is… difficult.

She pointed behind him. “Stand there, with your back against the wall.”

He did as she instructed, with only the slightest hesitation. Once his back was flush to the wall, she tapped her tablet screen and his arms and legs were clamped in place by hidden fetters. He gasped and struggled against them but they held fast. He watched her with frantic, pleading eyes. His breathing hurried and erratic. She drank in his fear.

Another tap on her personal datapad summoned a training droid from the back room, though instead of a training weapon, it carried a Type-14 cutting saw. Lucius’s movements became even more frantic as it saddled up beside him.

She gestured to the droid. “This droid is going to cut off your head in sixty seconds. You have until then to move this stone into that box.” She gestured to the table before him. “Do you understand?”

“M-Master! I-I-I can do it, please give me a, uh, a-a-a chance!”

Kishhodt sneered, “This _is_ your chance, boy.”

The saw blade came to life, startling him as it spun up to full speed. He tugged at his bonds once more in a panic. He wasted at least twenty seconds on this before he calmed down enough to focus on the stone. His moist brow furrowed and his chattering teeth clenched. She could hear his growl over the buzzing blade and murmurs of a small crowd that gathered to watch the spectacle. She ignored them and focused on the boy. She could feel his hysteria bubbling beneath the surface, but what she couldn’t feel was the Force. Why was it still silent?

The stone remained still at the thirty-second mark. He tried begging and beseeching her, but she was unmoved. At the forty-second mark he cursed her, spewing invectives and disrespect that might earn him an early death, but still she watched without change. At the fifty-second mark he began to weep as hope fled him. All the while, the whirling buzz of the circular saw was incessant.

Ten seconds…

Nine…

Eight…

Kishhodt resigned herself to the boy’s death. There was really no helping it at this point.

Six…

Five…

The stone on the table shifted slightly as the boy struggled against his bonds – or was it a trick of the light? Kishhodt wasn’t sure, but she felt a swell of hope in her belly. Could this be it?

Three…

No movement.

Two…

This was it.

One…

She failed.

Zero…

Kishhodt closed her eyes and sighed as the blade bit into flesh. Such a waste…

…

…

Negative one…

Negative two…

 _Wait, what?_ she thought, opening her eyes and looking closely at the droid.

The automaton strained to pull its actuator across the boy’s throat but found its movement arrested. It was stuck, the blade spinning faster than the eye could perceive mere millimeters from tense, bleeding flesh. The blade itself stopped and the crack of breaking metal echoed throughout the dojo.

Some in the crowd gasped as Lucius screamed out, his eyes burning yellow and red. The droid’s arm crumpled and tore loose. The machine stumbled back before freezing in the air and accelerating into the wall beside the boy, flattening under the pressure as the boy’s bindings tore loose and he hunched forward. A blast of wind and pressure flew out and caught Kishhodt and the others, though only a few stumbled.

Kishhodt smiled as Lucius turned to the broken droid and flung it away with the Force. He had finally broken through. However…

“Impressive, Lucius, but that was not your task.” She nodded meaningfully to the nearby stone and box.

Lucius snarled and swung his arm out. The stone flew into the side of the box, puncturing into the metal container which tumbled to the ground as the table itself was flipped over by the force of his rage.

Kishhodt smiled. The real training could now begin.

* * *

Lucius was without a shirt, and Kishhodt could see the echoes of their sessions etched into his flesh. Raised keloid scars where the lightsaber touched. A permanent reminder of the price of power. He once complained about them, but she was quick to rebuke that line of thought.

_“Dear Lucius, you do yourself a disservice with such fretting. Our scars have the power to remind us the past was real.”_

Though a quick glance at the scars on his back brought a frown to her lips. When he’d arrived, he’d had the most beautifully intricate tattoo on his back. A bird made of flame with scorching wings spread wide. Vathila saw to it that the ink was lasered off. The past was dead and best left forgotten. If he were to bear ink, it would be with Sith iconography.

That wasn’t the only thing that made her frown. “What have I told you about holding your lightsaber that way?”

Lucius winced and glanced to his hand. His ruby-red blade held in the reverse Shien. “I’m sorry, Master. It just feels… more natural, I guess?”

“It is foolish. Your range of motion is significantly reduced.”

“I just hold it this way when I’m idle. I can flip it around when I attack.”

“And how many precious milliseconds do you lose in the flip? Is ‘comfort’ more desirable than _life_?”

His eyes narrowed. “Then I’ll just move faster!”

“Oh?” Kishhodt smiled now, twirling her curved lightsaber in her hand. “Then show me.”

She leapt toward him without warning – his blade still held behind his back. She swept down and he blocked – red blade on red blade. Reverse Shien was actually superior when it came to holding another’s blade back. The wrist bones aligned in such a way to reinforce the block – at least for humans – but it was difficult to leverage.

She pulled back and swung as hard as she could at a spot impossible to counter with the reverse Shien. Instead of blocking with his lightsaber, Lucius grabbed her blade with his hand. Her mind stuttered at the sight for a split-second before she noticed the sparks coming from his glove.

_Cortosis-weave. Clever boy._

He pushed her away before the glove melted and flipped his blade into a more orthodox grip before attacking her himself. His form was much better these days, though he still had a tendency to sacrifice defense, leaving his left side open at times – something he paid for in the past and would soon pay for now.

Kishhodt struck his blade and forced it to the side before delivering a reinforced kick to his ribs, fracturing some in the blow. He fell back, clutching his side and wheezing as he swatted at her with his blade. She easily disarmed him and held him at blade point until he yielded. A tap of her blade left him smarting, but the lesson remained and the scar would remind: guard your left side, dummy.

“Alright, Lucius, I will concede the point. So long as you are quick enough to switch grips, you may hold the blade however you wish. But do _not_ forget its weaknesses.”

“Yes, Master,” he said, rubbing the burn on his clavicle.

“Another night in bacta should heal those ribs. Until then, the training continues.”

She heard him groan. What inconceivable laxity. She would need to punish him for that. Perhaps she had been too forgiving during their training. She launched herself at him again and their blades met with a resounding rapport. He was more cautious this time, and his movements were encumbered by his wounds, but he fought well and she never disarmed him again that day.

After several more hours, Kishhodt signaled the end of their sparring. Lucius radiated relief, but she was pleased to see him hide it beneath professional respect. He was learning.

“What is the dark side?” she asked out of the blue.

He had grown used to these non sequitur pop quizzes and answered without hesitation. “It is our strength. Fueled by emotion and passion.”

“You are not a youngling training beneath Master Chikchik. Memorized lessons will not do, Lucius. I asked what the dark side was, I expect you to tell me.”

The boy tensed, uncertain of what to say and worried about retaliation should he answer falsely. “I… I’m not sure… Master.”

“No, I imagine not. It is one thing to read a scroll or listen to a data crystal, it is another thing to _know_ something yourself. The dark side does indeed provide the power of a Sith, and it is indeed powered by emotion and passion. But these do not _define_ the dark side, any more than it defines a Sith. The dark side is a covenant. Power at a price. It offers boundless rewards to those who can wield it effectively and anguish to those who cannot. It warps flesh and perception. It encourages avarice and envy. It promotes the individual while disdaining the collective.”

His brow furrowed. “But… aren’t _we_ a collective? Lady Vathila brought the Orders together.”

“She did, and under her leadership we have prospered and maintained the peace.” She nodded. “But how long can such a state last? Can it last without her guiding hand? Can it last once the Jedi are brought low?”

“I… y-yes?”

“Betrayal is the way of the Sith, Lucius, but it is more than that, it is the truest nature of the dark side. Avarice and envy. You covet what you don’t have, and you guard what you do. Tell me, how does an Apprentice surpass their Master?”

“By learning all they can and training. Until their Master recognizes their power and releases them to serve the Mistress.”

“That is indeed how things are in the Order of Lady Vathila, but is this the natural way of things? Can you truly surpass your Master if they yet live?”

“How can the Sith grow strong if the Master is dead?”

“And what if they are weak? What if their death is what strengthens the Order? What if ‘strength’ were redefined?” Kishhodt asked, “Numbers as a measure of strength is a mundane metric. It is the Jedi method. Instead, I would postulate an alternative: a single Master to embody the strength of legions.”

“Like Lady Vathila?”

“She does indeed fit the mold, but remember that even a krayt dragon can be felled by womp rats once swarmed. Does that make them greater than a dragon? Could Lady Vathila likewise be brought low if her followers united against her?”

The boy was quiet as he considered her words. She was glad he did not resist them.

“Would that make the Sith strong? For the weak to unite against their better? And what of the next leader chosen from these weakened ranks? What happens to the Order once those even weaker unite against them?”

“The Sith are… lesser. It’s a cycle that reinforces weakness.”

“Quite so.”

“You speak like it’s inevitable, Master.”

“Because it is. Where the Jedi find strength in unity, the Sith thrive on discord. Avarice and envy. The nature of the dark side precludes cooperation, Lucius. Because of this, any Master who takes more than one Apprentice is a fool, for they will unite to overthrow them.” She paused and checked the chrono, it was almost curfew. “Our time is at an end, Lucius. Think upon what I said, we’ll continue your training tomorrow.”

“Yes, Master Kishhodt,” he said with a respectful bow – drawing a hiss as it aggravated his fractured ribs – before helping her to clean the dojo.

* * *

Weeks passed and every session was brutal. Each time Kishhodt would tease him with more nuggets of Darth Bane’s teachings. Lucius was practically frothing at the mouth for new knowledge with each passing day.

She smiled as they stood apart on the dueling mat. “You’ve been improving, Lucius. I think I might be willing to reward you.”

“Thank you, Mast—”

“ _If_ ,” she interrupted, “you can beat me.”

He stared at her for a long moment before groaning and rolling his eyes. “It’s cruel to tease me like that, Master.”

“What’s wrong, Lucius? Where’s that confidence of yours?”

“I’m _confident_ I can do many things, Master. I’m not sure ‘defeating’ you is one of them.”

“Should I handicap myself then?” she asked, her tone light and playful and _terrifying_ , “I’ll tell you what, the rules are simple: if I go out of bounds, if I am disarmed, or if I actively yield, you will win.”

“Sounds almost easy when you put it like that,” he said sarcastically.

“Have faith in yourself and you will succeed. By the way, those rules apply to you as well. Shall we?”

Lucius hopped up and down on his feet as he considered. It ended with a sigh as he drew his blade. “You know, I don’t think you’ll go easy on me either way. So, I might as well have something to fight for.”

Kishhodt's smile was cheshire. “That’s the spirit.”

Their blades met with a crack in the middle of the circle.

* * *

The contest continued for the better part of a month, not once did Lucius even come close to ‘defeating’ his Master, though she noted with pride that his form was improving with each duel. He trained on his own time and it showed. Between that and the custom equipment he built, he might force her to break a sweat in a year or two.

Today, however, Kishhodt was more focused on the boy’s black eye. Apparently, he’d been mouthing off to one of the Twins – Tymnr if she remembered correctly. She’d noticed the gradual… she wasn’t sure what to call it exactly. Lucius seemed to grow more arrogant with each passing day. More full of himself. More daring and brazen.

When he’d awoken his power, he’d felt like a king. When he learned the red bracelet he wore protected him from others, he’d felt like a god. Kishhodt remembered fondly the day he’d insulted her – believing the band protected him.

It took three weeks in bacta before he was able to walk on his own again. The band did not make him invincible, it simply shielded him from death. Silly boy.

“Do you think yourself untouchable?” she asked.

He scowled and smoldered. “I hate that pompous asshole so goddamn much…”

Kishhodt chuckled. “Tymnr and his brother both have reason to be smug, dear boy. They’re some of the strongest swordsmen in our Order, and you’d do well to tread lightly when near them.”

“Hmph… for now.”

She smiled. She could feel the certainty in his words. This foolish child really believed his own hype. “Tell me, my dear ignorant Lucius, how do you foresee victory when you can’t even defeat _me_ in a simple duel?”

Lucius growled and arched his back like a terentatek. “Are you so sure I can’t?”

“Well, it’s been how long since I challenged you and you have yet to succeed?”

He roared and launched himself at her, blade held high. Kishhodt sidestepped him and deflected his blow down to the ground with one hand while the other shot out with a fist – blackening his other eye. He flinched back – both eyes clamped shut – whipping his lightsaber back-and-forth to keep her at bay.

Kishhodt rolled her eyes at the display and yanked his lightsaber out of his hand with the Force before launching him into the stone wall with a push. Lucius screamed out when he hit with a crack, slumping to the floor and clutching his shattered knee.

“This counts as a loss, by the way,” she said, grabbing him by the foot of his bad knee and dragging the screaming boy to the medical room.

* * *

It was now six months into this contest and Kishhodt was becoming nervous. It wasn’t fear so much as anxiety at being challenged. Lucius was strong. His strikes precise. His movements agile and without wasted effort – for the most part.

It was like an exquisitely choreographed dance. Thrusts. Feints. Dodges and counters. Kishhodt hid her smile as she went through the motions. Despite Lucius’s improvements, he was still her lesser.

She was moving him into a trap to end the duel… when everything changed.

The boy altered his stance, combining Ataru and Makashi with his reverse Shien grip. It startled her and she had to compensate for the unorthodox techniques he threw at her. Then he lunged into her space – well within striking distance – as she had overextended to block an expected attack that never came. The plasma bit into her flesh and she was thrown off-balance as her left arm fell to the floor. She barely registered the still-sizzling stump before her vision blurred red with hate and she launched herself at him in a berserker state.

Now he was on the defensive, using instinctive blocks and deflections as he fell back on Soresu. Despite his efforts, a few strikes singed his flesh. Were she not injured, he would be dead. He tried a leg sweep but she dodged and he only managed to knock her severed arm out of the way. She brought her blade down on him and it took all his strength just to hold her back.

The blades squealed against each other as each combatant glared into the other’s eyes – one set a light amber, the other a blistering yellow ringed in crimson.

“Yield, Master!” Lucius yelled, trying to pierce the woman’s rage, “You’ve been disarmed!”

The Sith Master grit her teeth and roared in fury at the pun.

“Be reasonable, Master!” he beseeched, falling to one knee as she began overpowering him, “Your fucking arm is outside the ring!”

Kishhodt furrowed her brow and glanced to the side. There, outside the boundary line just as he said, was her severed arm. She narrowed her eyes and growled, her rage tempered slightly. She shoved him to the ground before deactivating her blade and retrieving her severed arm. “Don’t ever mistake this for a true and honorable victory, Lucius.”

He breathed a shaky sigh of relief. “Glory is a fool’s prize; honor is of no use to the dead.”

That made her smile, her anger forgotten. She beckoned him to follow her to the academy’s medical room.

* * *

The Master/Apprentice pair stood in a hallway that echoed with endless torment. Kishhodt was silent, her newly reattached arm was in a sling and wrapped in gauze and bacta strips. Lucius, meanwhile, nervously fidgeted beside her. He had only been in the hall a handful of times and rarely dithered when he did.

The floor was a long sheet of transparisteel that displayed dozens of condemned as pieces of living art and architecture. Each was confined to a machine in their prison – a combination Embrace of Pain/bacta tank, though only metaphorically. Granite shaped with the Force and imbued with Sith alchemy and advanced nanonics to both torment and prolong.

“What do you know of the Order of Darth Bane?”

“Not much, Master. I read the brochure and it mentions they followed a flawed ideology. One that was incompatible with the Sith Collective.”

“The latter point is very true, though one could argue the former. Darth Bane was a Dark Lord of the Sith who reformed the Order under the Rule of Two. ‘Only two should there be. No more, no less. One to embody the power and the other to crave it.’ He understood the fundamental truth of the dark side. And he understood the flaw in the mindset of his contemporaries, the Brotherhood of Darkness.”

“So, he claimed the Brotherhood and changed it?”

“In a way,” she chuckled, “Through cunning, he tricked the Brotherhood into using a ritual to destroy the Jedi they fought. The ‘thought bomb’ was a _powerful_ expression of darkness, but it came at a cost. Those at the epicenter were killed alongside their Jedi foes. Their souls ripped out and trapped within the thought bomb’s echo. Every single Sith in existence – other than Bane himself – was dead.”

“He destroyed the Sith?” Lucius asked, alarmed at this secret history.

“He was the ‘Sith’ari,’ the prophesied one. He who would destroy the Sith and remake them into something stronger than before. And he did, through the Rule of Two.” She smiled as she led him along the lesson, her boots clicking on the transparisteel as they paced the hall. “Power was concentrated in a single man, not diluted amongst the many. With but one Master and one Apprentice, there need not be fear of the weak uniting against the strong. The Apprentice would kill the Master and assume their place, but only when they were ready. Only when they were stronger than who they served. Thus, the Sith became greater. Each a warrior and master of blade and power.”

“Hmm… if every Apprentice was stronger, then the Sith would always be at their best. Every generation stronger than the last!”

“Yes, moreover, the small size of the Order necessitated a more subtle approach to things. No longer could we wage war with armies of lightsabers, instead, our weapon was secrecy and intrigue. And after a thousand years, Bane’s Order did what no other had done in millennia: destroy the Jedi Order.”

“The Great Jedi Purge.”

“Yes, though it’s more accurate to call it the _Second_ Great Jedi Purge. The first had occurred under the Sith Triumvirate following the defeat of Darth Malak. The difference was that the Jedi were dead _and_ the Sith ruled the galaxy.”

“Was the Rule of Two truly so powerful, Master?”

“You tell me, Lucius. How many times have the Sith waged open war on the Jedi? And how many times did we succeed? Internal strife has ever been our weakness, and only Lord Bane recognized this and proposed an alternative. He was the greatest of our forebears, Lucius. Never forget this.”

* * *

Months passed and Lucius’s appetite for knowledge steadily grew. Kishhodt observed his topics of study: history, weapons, politics. But what consumed him most was Sith philosophy. He pored over every scrap of information about various Sith beliefs only to discover a terrible truth: there were as many philosophies as there were Sith to conceive them. Only a few were organized into broad, lasting systems: ancient Sith imperialism, the hybrid Jedi/Sith system of the Brotherhood of Darkness, the didactic imperialism of Emperor Palpatine, and the One Sith of Darth Krayt. There were also the contemporary Sith Orders, though he tended to ignore them in favor of the old ways – this pleased her greatly.

But there was one thing that eluded him. The teachings of Darth Bane and the Rule of Two. Lady Vathila had ensured all records of his tenets – beyond a general description – were kept in restricted vaults, lest the rebellion of the Order of Bane find fertile ground amongst her minions. And so, he came to her.

Kishhodt shook her head. “I’m afraid I cannot help you, Lucius. That knowledge is forbidden.”

“But you were the one who explained the Rule of Two! I wouldn’t even know about it otherwise!”

“Dear Lucius, I was merely explaining our history, not _endorsing_ a mode of thinking incompatible with our way. To learn the secrets, you’d need to speak to one of those poor sods in the Screaming Hall.” She smiled sadistically. “Good luck with that.”

“Master, please, there must be some way to learn Bane’s secrets.”

She shrugged. “Not unless you plan on breaking into the archives and stealing his holocron.”

He furrowed his brow. “How… how exactly would I get in there?”

Kishhodt became very quiet, surely he wouldn’t… “Lucius, I will say this once and _only_ once. Do. Not. Pursue this line of thought. If Lady Vathila catches you, she. Will. Kill you.”

The boy became quiet and contemplative and Kishhodt smiled to herself. Yes, he was a good Apprentice, one who craved power no matter the risk. And with her vehement protestations against breaking into the archives, she should be adequately protected should Vathila force a mind-rip on him.

She silently prayed for his survival in the coming days, she would hate to have the last two years go to waste.

* * *

It was at least a week before Lucius attempted to infiltrate the archival restricted zone, and another before he succeeded. Kishhodt was proud in her own way when she was told of the boy’s predicament. He spent two days conversing with the holocron’s projected gatekeeper before he was caught and brought before Vathila herself.

He was given over to the Embrace of Pain and hadn’t yet been released. She idly wondered how it would change him to have every nerve ending set on fire for a full galactic standard week. Some found clarity in the Embrace – like Darth Krayt and Darth Caedus. Others lost their minds to the endless torture.

Knowing what she did of his past, she was confident he’d come out stronger.

When she next saw him, he was indeed different. He was thinner, but also more confident. His skin glowed at times and he had a small smile that never went away. A cursory skim of his surface thoughts showed why: Lady Vathila had taken him to bed. She smirked, that was quite the belt notch for a young man. It was also a concerning development, as his hormones would no doubt create attachments to the Mistress that would be nigh unassailable.

Lady Vathila was a powerful woman who took what she pleased. She was almost a parody of modern ideals of humanoid beauty – perfect in ways no mortal could achieve – so she didn’t need to be forceful when claiming a partner. As for mixing business with pleasure, there was little risk. Many considered her a goddess, and for good reason. None could threaten her. So, if she felt like satiating her lusts with a subordinate, who was Kishhodt to judge?

Of course, the boy had no idea he was being used, and it was questionable whether he would even care.

Still, all she could do was continue him down the path and hope he was strong enough to be the heir to Bane’s legacy.

So, they continued training. Another day, another duel. Though this one felt… less cohesive? Kishhodt scowled and swept out his legs, leaving him flat on the floor with her blade at his throat. It was pathetic. She almost didn’t feel like burning him with her lightsaber.

“Ahh!”

…almost.

“You’re slipping, Lucius. That’s not like you.”

He clambered to his feet, rubbing the fresh welt. “Forgive me, Master. I’ve got a lot on my mind right now.”

“More than the beam of deadly plasma that I wield?”

He smiled and nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“Hmm,” Kishhodt hummed, deactivating her blade, “you’ll need to clear your thoughts before we continue.”

He returned his lightsaber to his hip as well. “I’ve been having trouble sleeping, Master. Racing thoughts.”

“About?”

He became almost sheepish. “The nature of the dark side.”

 _The Rule of Two, in other words,_ she thought.

“I find that our training helps, but the only thing that really resets my brain is when I’m modding a weapon in the armory.”

“Then let’s do that,” she said, beckoning him to follow – at an appropriately submissive distance, of course, “I had heard one of the guards talking about a blaster you tweaked. They were impressed.”

She could feel his smile behind her. Stoking the fires of his ego was useful, even if her words were earnest.

“I can only hope Idelo would be proud.”

“He was your previous master, yes?”

“I suppose so. He made life bearable amongst the pirates. The only good memories were helping him mod their guns.”

Kishhodt nodded. The boy rarely spoke of that time – filled with pain as it was. He had no memory of the day she and Lady Vathila found him, though she’d been able to deduce the trigger for his leveling of the spaceport: a vong woman had murdered his mentor.

They entered the armory – which was sparsely populated at best – and Lucius set about claiming a space and gathering his equipment. Kishhodt remained near the door, content to watch the boy work. She noted the hyperfocus in his actions and wondered how he could transfer that to his bladework and Force expressions.

Lucius placed a hydrospanner and several tools on the bench before turning on a small fan built into the wall and pulling out the silver cigarette tin he kept hidden in his robes. Kishhodt frowned, having berated him in the past about it until she was green in the face – much like the reverse Shien.

“Need I remind you what happened last time you smoked in my presence, fool boy?”

He froze and glanced nervously toward his – currently – intact fingers. “Master, if the point of being here is to calm me down, then I _need_ a cigarette.”

Kishhodt wrinkled her nose. “The weapon modification should be sufficient without poisoning your lungs. A Sith must be at peak performance at all times, you cannot do that with reduced lung capacity and stamina.”

“If I can fight well enough to win, what does it matter?” he groused.

Kishhodt glared. “Win against _who_ exactly? Correct me if I’m wrong – _if you dare_ – but I don’t recall you ever defeating _anyone_ in this facility.”

Lucius remained silent, maybe even a little embarrassed, then slowly returned the cigarette tin to his robes without opening it.

Her glare lessened in quiet approval. “And let’s not ignore the bantha in the speeder, Lucius. One day – _if you survive_ – you’ll take an Apprentice of your own. Do you really want to risk giving them such a simple advantage? Does that benefit the Sith Order?”

He sighed and shook his head to the negative before pilfering an ARC-107a Imperial blaster rifle from a nearby shelf in silence.

It was the standard weapon for the Stormtroopers of the Fellan Imperium – a design quickly stolen and mass-produced by the Order of Snoke to arm its own Stormtroopers. He moved smoothly between the weapon and the tools and the components. Kishhodt could feel the peace this brought to his spirit. It entranced her and she lost track of time, only coming to when Lucius addressed her.

“The 7a is designed for use as a ‘designated marksman rifle.’ Caused a lot of ruckus when it was introduced. Most people don’t seem to realize the ‘Stormtrooper who can’t hit anything’ motif is just a HoloNet meme. It’s a good rifle overall. Accurate and dependable. Plus, they designed it to punch through armor, though it uses a higher power draw as a result. So, where some rifles can fire five hundred bolts on a single charge, this thing tops out at fifty.”

“Are you trying to compensate for that?”

“Yeah. You can either provide more ammunition, or additional utility,” he said, staring at the rifle and stroking his chin, “I’m thinking an under-barrel launcher. Though, that will require its own power source, otherwise that just makes the ammo issue worse.”

She listened to him speak at length as he worked on the weapon and cursed herself for not approaching him sooner – too focused on the orthodox in his training, instead of harnessing an innovative mind. His theories on converting lightsaber crystals and power circulators into high-yield batteries were intriguing. If he could build one, it could revolutionize the way the Sith operated. Personal shields, enhanced weaponry, anything really that required electricity. Sometimes they forgot just how much power they held in their hands when grasping the blade. She wondered if his mind might be better utilized by the Order of Plagueis rather than the Order of Vathila.

After a time, Kishhodt brought the conversation back to the Force – after ensuring there were no prying ears nearby. “You’re in a calmer state, Lucius. Tell me about your concerns. These racing thoughts of yours.”

He frowned and set down the hydrospanner slowly. “I’m trying to reconcile the nature of the dark side with the structure of the Collective. With everything Lady Vathila has built and shown me. It confuses me.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Everything she has built flies in the face of Bane’s teachings. I can feel – in my bones – that his teachings are correct, but when I look around at all this… it works, or seems to. I want so badly for this all to work…”

“You fear the fragility within the system.”

“I do. The dark side exalts the individual. But here we are many. Here the Force is confined in a way that feels unnatural. These people restrain the darkness, but at the same time… they create something greater than a single Master could.”

“Greater? Truly?” she pressed, noting the nervousness in his eyes as she prepared to rebuke him, “And what of Lord Sidious? He of Bane’s legacy, who brought the galaxy to its knees and commanded legions beneath his iron boot? Was he not a single Master? Did he not accomplish more than even our Collective? Do not forget where we stand, Lucius. This base of ours is underground for a reason.”

Lucius nodded, but Kishhodt could sense his unease. When bombarded by two diametrically opposed worldviews, you either chose one or were paralyzed with indecision – especially if one worldview was espoused by a woman you considered a sexual goddess.

 _If only he’d had more time with Bane’s holocron,_ she thought sourly.

* * *

Kishhodt glanced over the top of her datapad to look at her Apprentice. They were sitting in the parlor of her quarters – she read reports and he read an old tome reciting the Tragedy of Darth Plagueis. Her brows furrowed; he hadn’t turned a page in nearly an hour.

“It’s not an audio file, Lucius. You must turn the page to continue.”

He gave a spasmed start when she addressed him and she had to smother a smile. It was obvious where his inattention arose: Lady Vathila’s slowly expanding belly.

“Be mindful of your feelings, Lucius. They are a weapon that another could wield against you.”

The boy scowled. “Should I feel nothing? This is… I mean… I’m gonna be a dad, Master Kishhodt! That’s a big thing. Or it’s supposed to be.”

“It is significant but it’s no reason to lose your head.”

Lucius wasn’t paying attention, instead mumbling to himself various questions about how to raise a child and in what manner.

Kishhodt smiled. “You sound like my sister. She was so panicked when her son was born. How do I raise him right? Should I be firm or should I spoil him? She never found the right answer, she simply did her best. I would suggest you follow her example.”

“If Lady Vathila lets me,” he griped.

“True. Ultimately, the child is hers, despite your contribution. In the same way that all of us ultimately belong to our Lady. But that doesn’t mean you need be absent from your child’s life,” she said, “That was my sister’s burden. The father of her child abandoned them before the boy was even born. I’ve entertained thoughts of finding him and sending his head to her in a box, but that’s more effort than he’s worth.”

Lucius was quiet, his eyes curious yet cautious. “You sound fond of your family. Are you still in contact with them?”

She frowned. “No. When I became Sith… well, it isn’t proper to entangle others in our ways. They become a weakness others can exploit.”

“Do you miss them?”

She stared at him a moment as she contemplated. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think about them and wonder what became of them, but that has no bearing on my life at this time. You’ll be in a different situation, given the nature of your child’s conception.”

He nodded. “Because they’ll be raised Sith.”

“Yes, which brings its own dangers. Dynastic parricide is ever-present in our history. And then there’s the added issue of bedding the strongest amongst us. You will never be her equal, Lucius. If you accept this, there may be a chance for happiness before the nature of the darkness perverts even that.”

The boy became quiet and withdrawn after that. Kishhodt could sense his clashing emotions, but most prominent was the fear. He wanted what was taken from him: family, belonging, honor. He could find these in the company of Lady Vathila, but deep down he knew it to be a façade. It simply wasn’t their way.

* * *

Kishhodt watched from a distance, an odd stirring in her core. Vathila had birthed hundreds in her centuries of life, but something felt different here. Perhaps it was Lucius – hovering and fretting like a panicked porg. As far as she knew, the other fathers had kept their distance for one reason or another. It was strange that Vathila allowed him nearby.

 _Emotional manipulation, no doubt,_ she thought approvingly.

Emotions were useful for both the individual and those who pulled their strings. Vathila used sex and authority and ‘family’ to entice the boy to obey. Kishhodt used familiarity and respect and forbidden knowledge to do the same. It was simply a question of what the boy would gravitate toward.

A child definitely gave Lady Vathila the advantage.

How to reclaim the initiative? It was a puzzle Kishhodt had struggled with once she understood the long-term implications. She had molded his thinking, but had it solidified into the iron will of the Sith Lords of old? Those who massacred their loved ones without hesitation in pursuance of their ambition? No, probably not. He was young and hormonal and inexperienced.

Perhaps that was the answer. He was devout in his adherence to the Rule of Two, she need only point to its tenets in light of his changing situation. And there was no reason to think he needed to _abandon_ his child to remain true to it. After all, they could feel – even within the womb – just how powerful the child would be. A more perfect Apprentice and successor she could not envision.

Kishhodt smiled as she glanced back at the spectacle. The Mistress was in terrible pain and was never more vulnerable than in that moment of anguish. She was still too great to overcome, but it was interesting that she didn’t hide this from her or him. Most Sith Lords were too proud or paranoid to show their weakness.

The doctors and the Trusted orbited her bed as she pushed between contractions. Lucius was shooed to the side and eventually came to stand next to his Master. “I feel sick.”

Kishhodt chuckled. “Try not to faint before our Lady, Lucius. You’ve been given a great honor to be present. No other man in your position has been allowed to stand here.”

“I get that, but it’s nerve-wracking,” he said, his tone clipped and exhausted, “Just the thought of this turns my bowels to jelly.”

“It’ll be over soon, and the Children will welcome their newest member.”

He did not reply, he simply wrung his hands and paced. His nerves spiked when he heard the doctor proclaim he could see the child’s head. There was excitement in the room that even Vathila’s pained screams could not dampen. Another child of the Mistress was to join the hundreds who came before.

There was elation.

Then there was despair.

The doctor was silent and the Trusted grew agitated.

Lady Vathila struggled for breath and asked, “What is it?”

The doctor spoke but Kishhodt did not hear him. Her attention was arrested by Lucius. His aura was like shadow and his feelings like brine. He sauntered over to the bed in a daze, taking the lifeless body of his baby into his hands. Shaking hands undid the umbilical cord wound tightly around the tiny neck.

He wept.

He wept and his mind became ice.

Kishhodt watched with a frown – not at the situation, but at her natural inclination to use this in molding him. It felt callous and needless in the moment, so she clamped down on it. Now was a time to mourn the loss of one of the Children.

But then she felt a shift in the atmosphere. A tug on her soul. She felt a wave of vertigo that the others in the room also shared, judging by their swaying.

Lucius remained still with his baby’s body in his hands, unaffected by this— nay, he was the cause! He was siphoning the lifeforce of anyone within reach. The doctors and the Trusted at the epicenter collapsed one by one. Kishhodt herself felt dizzy. She took an instinctive step back and felt the pull lessen ever so slightly.

Her Apprentice, meanwhile, was wreathed in static light. The gathered energy coalesced and flowed through his hands into the still form of the newborn in his grasp. The babe twitched and coughed and cried as all newborns did. He smiled for a brief moment before he lost consciousness and fell to the ground.

Kishhodt reached out and caught him and the child with the Force – laying him down gently and taking the baby to her mother.

Lady Vathila was exhausted. Her deep crimson skin a sallow pink. She was as vulnerable as Kishhodt had ever seen her – likely a combination of childbirth and the life-drain Lucius had used. She silently considered the woman she served. If ever there were an opportunity to remove her…

Kishhodt shook the thought away as quickly as she could. No thought was safe from Lady Vathila. And no amount of vulnerability guaranteed success against one such as she.

She watched her Lady coo at the carmine bundle in her arms. It was a girl. Her eyes like pools of liquid amber – innocent in a way no grown massassi could be. Kishhodt smiled and excused herself, this was a private moment.

As she turned to leave, she grabbed Lucius and slung him over her shoulder. Another night in the bacta tank should be enough to revitalize him. A glance back at Lady Vathila and Kishhodt saw something quite unexpected – the Lady was looking at Lucius with something approaching true affection.

Kishhodt wondered if it was a trick of the light as she made her way out of the room with the new father in tow.

* * *

Her name was Mischa, named after Lucius’s late sister. It was curious that Lady Vathila allowed him to name the child. Perhaps she was moved to do so by his efforts to save the girl. She had her mother’s ruby complexion and raven-black hair, but she had her father’s eyes – not the color, hers were amber like her mother’s, but rather, the slanted almond shape of her father. She was adorable, and her power was obvious.

One could feel it in the air like a humid pressure. When she was within the womb, those nearby might suffer visions and madness – something that still occurred when the child slept. It made her parents proud of what she could become, though there were discussions about suppressing her effects when she dreamt. The talks were all the more pressing as Lucius seemed to fall under the girl’s sway with ease when he too slept – the bonds of father and daughter unusually strong.

Sometimes, Lucius would be late to their training sessions, losing track of time while playing with his toddler. Kishhodt was relatively forgiving when it happened, though she never missed an opportunity to point out the weakness such indiscipline engendered. Affection made one soft. A soft man was a weak man. There could only be strength amongst the Sith. Something he knew well, judging from their current conversation.

“I feel like…” he drifted off with a frown, “like being a father is anathema to my beliefs, y’know?”

“In what way?”

“Loved ones are a weakness – as you’ve explained and I’ve seen. I can feel my affection for…” He glanced at her but quickly looked away. “Certain people. Mischa, obviously, but even her mother… I think. My feelings on Vath are confusing.”

Kishhodt arched a brow. “You’ve grown quite bold to give the Mistress a pet name.”

Lucius cringed, becoming flustered. “S-Slip of the tongue… Master.”

“I bet. Your concerns are understandable. And I think you are wise to acknowledge them. The question is what you will do with this knowledge.” She looked at him and cocked her head slightly. “Why do your feelings startle you so?”

He swallowed a lump in his throat. “I cannot stand against our Lady. She would tear me to pieces. But I can’t help but feel… it seems like… gah!” He threw his arms up in frustration and paced about for a minute. “I crave her power as I crave yours. As it is meant to be… but that is not what she believes. And I don’t know if I have the heart to kill her or even you if I needed to.”

Kishhodt frowned. He had taken Bane’s lessons to heart, but Vathila’s manipulations were eroding his fortitude. She punched him in the face.

“Argh! You fucking bitc—” Lucius crashed into the ceiling and was pinned there by the invisible noose that stole his breath away.

“Do you think she or I would hesitate to kill you if the situation were reversed?” Kishhodt tutted beneath him, shaking her head in disappointment, “You forget the truth Bane taught. You forget that _ambition_ is ever paramount to a Sith. If you fear your affections, sever them. If a loved one holds your heart, remove theirs. The only thing that ever matters is the Sith. The Master and the Apprentice. Everything else is either a tool or a weapon. You have forgotten this, though I do not begrudge your affection for your daughter.”

She released her grip and he collapsed to the floor, gasping and wheezing and rubbing his throat raw.

“She is a threat to you because others can use her against you. You must remove that threat, though there are many ways. You could kill her. You could abandon her. You could spirit her away and hide her from the galaxy and live in constant fear that she will be found. Your daughter Mischa is Lady Vathila’s hostage. It is your feelings for her that give our Lady leverage over you.”

Lucius pulled his legs under to sit cross-legged. “I won’t kill her… and I won’t abandon her.”

“Then that leaves the most dangerous of all options.”

“You’re forgetting the fourth option, Master,” he said, “I stay put and serve the Mistress.”

“True, that is an option. But is that what you want? You are agitated and confused. That is unlikely to change.”

Lucius remained silent, content to scowl at the floor and shake his head. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Do any of us?” she asked.

Only silence answered her.

* * *

Kishhodt went through the motions of her katas. No wasted movement. Every strike precise and deadly. She’d lost track of time and realized she was the only one in the dojo. It was nice to be alone with one’s thoughts.

She began another rotation but stopped short. There, in the Force, she felt the Mistress coming her way. And she was not alone.

Kishhodt returned her lightsaber to her hip and checked her clothes and hair, doing her best to create an immaculate visage. The door to the dojo opened and Lady Vathila entered with the Twins in tow – Zytmnr and Tymnr. Vathila’s enforcers bristled with muscle and killing intent, though that was their standard disposition, so she did not fear.

“Lady Vathila,” she began with a deep bow, “To what do I owe the honor?”

“I always appreciated how dedicated you were to the art of the blade, Kishhodt. A mirror of myself as I pursued the dark arts.”

“Every Sith pursues power, Mistress. There many paths to the same destination.”

“Quite so. Like the Sith themselves. We are one people, more or less, but there are as many philosophies as there are practitioners. It makes the unity of Collective difficult to maintain.”

Kishhodt only nodded. She still wasn’t certain what Vathila wanted, but it wasn’t unheard of for her to start an esoteric debate out of the blue – immortality tended to change one’s perspective, it seemed.

“Like my precious Lucius. He has such pride in himself and his beliefs, it makes him bearable – mundane as he is otherwise. He has such archaic views on the role of the dark side and the way of the Sith.”

Kishhodt swallowed a lump that had formed in her throat. “He is a student of history, Mistress. When not training his body or abilities, he spends all his time in the library, rooting through old scrolls and tomes.”

“Yes, it is a laudable interest, though one that can blind him to the future,” she said, holding an elbow with one hand and tapping an ebony nail on her crimson lips with the other before abruptly changing topics, “He respects you.”

“As he should. All should respect their Masters.”

“True, but it’s more than that. He considers you his confidant, and it seems he is yours.”

Kishhodt tensed. “He is but an acolyte, Mistress. I impart wisdom and skill, as I do with any I train.”

“And are others indoctrinated into fealty to the Rule of Two as well?”

Kishhodt kept her breathing steady and calm – though her heart beat against her ribs without pause. “I spoke to him about those in the Screaming Hall, but no more. I would hardly call a lesson of loyalty to the Collective ‘indoctrination’ against it.”

“The boy’s mind is laid bare to me, old friend. I saw your goading. Nudging him along the path to Bane’s teachings. Even alerting him to Bane’s holocron,” she explained with a small smile like that of a nexu ready to pounce, “But memories can become clouded. Context muddled. Surrender yourself to me – _voluntarily_ – and we can put my mind at ease by inspecting yours. If you are truly as innocent as you claim, then you have nothing to fear. I am, if nothing else, a fair judge.”

Kishhodt weighed her options.

She could attack. Maybe even kill one of them. She would, of course, die in the attempt.

Alternatively, she could surrender herself. She knew the ‘mercy’ such a choice would bring.

And thus, a question arose, was it better to suffer and live in eternal torment beneath a glass floor, or die on your feet like a warrior?

She made her choice.

“I will do as you ask, Mistress. I have nothing to hide from you,” she said, careful to tamp down her nervousness.

Vathila smiled. “I’m relieved to hear that, old friend. Zytmnr, please secure her lightsaber. I wouldn’t wish any to be harmed during the… investigation.”

The massassi man nodded and approached Kishhodt. He reached out to take her blade when her hand moved and the glowing red blade slashed through his throat, cauterizing his vocal cords. He fell back with a yelp as his twin brother Tymnr caught him and snarled a challenge.

Kishhodt didn’t bother to move further. The strike had come up short, her curved hilt lessening her reach. Without the element of surprise, there was no hope – whether of fight or flight. She waited a half-second longer before she was enveloped in the Force – her hilt shattering at her feet.

Lady Vathila appraised her with an outstretched hand. Her eyes showed… nothing. Not disappointment, or glee, or sadism. She looked bored. Aloof. Like nothing had happened at all.

“You were my most trusted, Kishhodt. To betray me like this for an ideology that long ago ran its course. I’m disappointed.”

“The Rule of Two is the only _true_ Sith way, Vathila,” she said calmly as she floated in her Mistress’s vice-like grip, “The Sith Collective will fail.”

“Do you truly believe I am blind to this? The purpose of the Collective is, and always has been, to unite against the Jedi. Once they are gone, the alliance becomes redundant. That you never realized this is… disappointing, yet perhaps expected. I’m sorry you won’t be able to see it yourself, old friend.”

“Kill me if you wish, Vathila, it changes nothing. There are others out there to claim the mantle. The Banite way persists and will succeed in time. We are inevitable.”

“No, Kishhodt, there are no others, and it will not succeed. The only thing that is inevitable is those like you who believe such mindsets have a chance of victory. Perhaps you’ll see the folly in that philosophy after a few centuries of confinement alongside your kin.”

Kishhodt tried and failed to suppress the horror she felt.

Death would have been easier.

* * *

How long had it been?

How long would it be?

The pain made it difficult to think.

Difficult to focus.

It was not constant, for repetitive stimulation had a tendency to numb one’s senses. Instead, there would be a pulse of agony for thirty seconds followed by ten seconds of respite. Counting those beautiful ten seconds was a blessing and a curse.

Kishhodt blinked through the tortuous sensations and focused on the man and woman outside her glass prison. He was – even distorted through the transparisteel – uncomfortable. The woman, red-skinned and gloating, beamed with sadistic vindication. She could not hear what they said, and she could not form coherent thoughts long enough to suss out a conjecture.

The pain returned and her sight went red. When the reprieve repeated, her guests were gone. She tried to think about them as her senses returned, but she had trouble even remembering the smudges that they were.

How long had it been?

How long would it be?

The pain made it difficult to think.

Difficult to focus.

Time passed, or maybe it didn’t. She was on display but completely isolated. The juxtaposition would have been strange if she could think. Another blur appeared, or was it the same? It seemed familiar. A boy in dark clothes. She felt her memory returning. She could see olive-green eyes and—

She screamed as the pulse wound through her nerves. Her hoarse voice joining the hall choir. The boy crouched down as the pain subsided. She wept, knowing how fleeting her relief would be.

Seven…

Eight…

Nine…

She tensed as one does after such painful conditioning. The pulse came and she ground her teeth, but the pain seemed muted. She opened her eyes and saw the figure with more clarity. Messy dark brown hair and sad, almond-shaped eyes. She noticed – despite the distortion of the glass – a familiar lightsaber on his hip. Hers, though only a piece of it. Had he taken it for himself, or had Vathila given it to him as a reminder of his failure? Either was possible.

“Master Kishhodt…” He looked at her with sadness.

“Don’t look at me like that, Lucius… I much prefer your hate… the killing intent when we spar.”

His smile was muted but genuine. “I feel lost without you, Master. You’re the only one here who understood me. The only one I was willing to believe in. I’m not sure I belong here anymore…”

“You are strong, Lucius. You will become— ARRGH!” The pulse returned, still muted but excruciating. As it passed, she took a few desperate breaths. “…You are your own Master now, Lucius. The Banites are gone. Only you remain.”

Another pulse. Another scream.

“S-Save the Sith from themselves, Lucius. Become he who protects our Order. Become the ‘taral.’ ”

He nodded and placed a hand on the glass. “I will, Master Kishhodt.”

“No, Lucius…” She grit her teeth as a surge of agony danced across her nerves once more. “Call me… Biala… you’ve earned that much, at least…”

The boy nodded his head once before turning away and sprinting down the hall past the faceless wailing Banites. With him gone, Biala felt the full brunt of suffering reassert itself. Her scream joined theirs. As it was meant to be. Evermore.

**Author's Note:**

> I’d like to thank my editors for reviewing this before I posted, but I want to extend a special thanks to kainono who – in one of his reviews of “Shadow of the Phoenix” – questioned my explanation of Taral naming his lightsaber ‘Biala.’ Originally, it was just an homage to Varric’s crossbow ‘Bianca’ in “Dragon Age 2,” but his comments gave me an idea that led to this.
> 
> Also, Xabiar created a Discord server for his own XCOM stories and included a channel to discuss “Shadow of the Phoenix” and its related works (such as the various Addenda and SotP Tales). If you would like to join the server and come to the channel to speak directly to us, just use the code NeKH6YF and go to the channel “sotp-discussion.”


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